Cyborg
by Ashtrees
Summary: Sherlock's body is completely cybernetic, except for his brain, and even that can be robotic. It makes John wonder if Sherlock is a human with a robotic body, or a robot with a human brain? Is Sherlock capable of friendship, of understanding love and other emotions? Chapter 4: Sherlock gets his adult body.
1. Cyborg

**Cyborg**

"Oh, no! I-I've split the coffee. Sorry."

Molly's cry made both Sherlock and John look towards the swing doors, where the pathologist had dropped one of the three cups she had been attempting to carry, but only John went to help her clean up. Sherlock immediately dismissed the scene as a completely unimportant event which did not in any way affect him at all, except to distract him momentarily and by depriving him of his afternoon caffeine fix for another five to ten minutes, and went back to peering down the microscope.

Three minutes later, Molly left the lab to fetch Sherlock a new coffee and John returned to his seat, sipping at his lukewarm tea, half of which had also been slopped onto the floor because Molly had lent forward in an automatic reflex to try to catch the falling plastic cup of black coffee.

"You could have offered to help, you know," John muttered softly. "You're going to have to wait while Molly goes through the whole of process of making you a new one."

It was the quietness of John's voice which caught Sherlock's attention more than the words themselves. John's conversational voice would fluctuate anywhere between 63db to 74db, when he was explosively angry he could push it up to about 80db. But, the muttering was a sign of the restrained anger Sherlock was learning to attribute more with John Watson. Still, he wasn't sure why John was annoyed with him.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly to one side. "If it upsets you that much that Molly split my coffee, then I suggest that in future you turn down her offers of tea or coffee whenever she asks."

"That doesn't make any sense," John said, shaking his head. "Why should I go without?"

"Molly has small hands and lacks a certain of amount of common sense. She thinks it will save time if she carries all three cups at once in a triangle formation in her hands. Which it does, most of the time. However, the cups are hot, the doors are old and heavy and have a habit of swinging back in your face, and - as I've mentioned several times - Molly has undersized hands. So, it's highly likely that she will drop one of the cups. Probability says it will be cup at the point of the triangle, which she can only grip with the tip of her fingers, habit means that it will be _my_ cup which is always hottest because she makes it last, again because of a deeply ingrained habit which would take months to correct and really isn't worth the bother when this problem only started when you came along, meaning that she now has three cups to manage instead of two. So, if you want to help Molly, then you will stop drinking tea so that she can carry one cup in each hand and we won't have to go through this embarrassing scenario again."

John had listened to Sherlock's speech with his jaw hanging increasingly lower, taken aback by the detective's almost breathtaking selfishness. His point had been that Sherlock should have offered to help tidy up the spilt drinks out of politeness, not that it needed three of them, especially as they both knew that Molly would go to the effort of fixing him a second coffee. Especially as coffee for Sherlock Holmes was not necessary for his health or survival, it was just that he enjoyed the flavour of black coffee with three teaspoons of sugar. But, Sherlock had completely misread the irritation in John's voice.

Once Sherlock had finished talking, John closed his mouth again, pressing his lips into a thin line. He decided that trying to get Sherlock to understand that he wasn't annoyed with Molly, was pointless. He hadn't known Sherlock for very long, but he had more patience with the man than most people did.

John couldn't stop prevent the tired smile that tugged at his mouth when he realised that many people would argue against him referring to Sherlock as a man. For Sherlock Holmes was a cyborg. An almost total cyborg. Technically, most people were these days with hearing aids and sophisticated replacement eyes and robotic limbs, and so on. But, in Sherlock's case, the only organic part of his body, the only original part of Sherlock Holmes left, was his brain - and that had always been the most robotic part about him anyway.

Although, John didn't know the circumstances which had led Sherlock's brain to be implanted into a fully cybernetic body, he could infer that it had happened in Sherlock's childhood. It would take years to adapt to a new body, but Sherlock was graceful in his movements. John was aware that his theory depended on Sherlock being as old as he looked (about thirty, give or take), and even that depended on the biomechanical body being programmed to age at a normal rate. And yet John knew that Sherlock was intelligent enough to mess with his own wiring. So, really, unless Sherlock gave him an honest answer, he had no idea how old Sherlock was.

However, Sherlock's age aside, if his personality was a little "off" every now and then, John was willing to forgive him. After all, John couldn't even begin to imagine the psychological impact of having a fully robotic body would do to a person, let alone a child. He had read papers on the subject and the prognosis was always gloomy. Sherlock, it seemed, was one of the more stable ones, not that there were many others like him.

He was pulled out of his reverie when he sensed someone moving behind him. Sherlock, having suddenly abandoned the microscope, had already put on his coat and scarf, and was heading towards the door. John huffed; it hadn't occurred to Sherlock to say that he had finished.

Just as they reached the door, Molly came through it, with a replacement cup of coffee for Sherlock.

"No, thank you, Molly," Sherlock blurted over his shoulder as he disappeared down the corridor.

"Sorry," John mumbled. He hovered awkwardly for a moment, remembering that Sherlock hadn't even removed the slides containing blood droplets from underneath the microscope. Finally, he settled on chasing after Sherlock, knowing that he would never catch him up if Sherlock got too far ahead. He apologised again to Molly before bolting.

He only just made it into the taxi before it pulled away from the curb.

"You need to wait for me!" he snapped.

Sherlock was too engrossed in staring down at his phone to look at John. Instead, he shrugged, asking absently, "You made in time, didn't you?"

John swallowed back a caustic remark before asking, "Where are we going?"

"Crime scene."

"Why?"

"I've an idea."

John dragged a hand down over his face, before focussing his attention on watching the London streets pass by through the window. On days like this, Sherlock was almost impossible to communicate with. He was so engrossed in The Work everyone else just melted into the background of his mind.

It made John wonder if Sherlock was human brain inside a robotic body or a robot with a human brain. Percentage wise Sherlock was defiantly more machine than man, but the brain was the essential component of an individual's humanity, it's value far exceeding all of the other parts put together. Everything but the mind could be replicated inside a factory, but nothing came close to creating the human soul.

John sighed heavily and glanced at the cyborg sitting next to him, typing away at high speed. It was on days like this that John realised that Sherlock was a thinking machine, with a few spots of humanity thrown in, like stains of ink on a white shirt. Unwanted and seen as a flaws.

What would Sherlock be like in five years time? Or ten? Twenty? Would there be anything human left? Or would he be a perfect deduction machine, able to think out any mystery given to him?

It frightened John, but he knew that Sherlock would not see that as a bad thing. But, the most frightening thing of all was that nobody, not even Sherlock himself, knew what the future held. It could hold little to no change at all. Or it could hold brilliance. Or madness.

A thought occurred to John, and he sat up straighter. Back in the lab, Sherlock's solution to Molly spilling the coffee, had nothing to do with Molly changing her ways; Sherlock had essentially blamed John. Sherlock valued logic, so why he hadn't he demand that Molly do two trips from her office to the lab, carrying two cups and then one? Or vice versa? Wouldn't that have been the best solution? Except that it would mean Molly working a little bit harder - maybe Sherlock hadn't wanted that.

Perhaps, John thought, he likes her.

At first the idea seemed ridiculous, but then John thought, why not?

It would be ridiculous to think that Sherlock would do anything other than deny and suppress his feelings. Probably he only saw Molly as a friend, but it gave John a little hope that Sherlock was still capable of feeling affection for people. Even if it was only in small amounts.

No matter how frustrating Sherlock Holmes was, John knew that he wanted to continue working with the man he found so fascinating.


	2. Maintenence

**Chapter 2: Maintenance **

John was not best pleased with his flatmate for two reasons. Firstly, he could imagine more enjoyable ways to spend his Friday evening than wasting it at the hospital, as he was being forced to now. Secondly, Sherlock's recklessness frightened him slightly. It was as if the detective had no sense of danger or didn't believe that he could ever be killed. He had come close to it, though, that very afternoon.

They had been searching for an assassin called Bolt. It wasn't a very inspiring name, but the gun-for-hire held the market niche for killing off police officers all over the world, not a very popular job, and the Met were particularly keen that he should learn what the inside of a prison cell looked like.

It hadn't taken Sherlock long to find out how to contact Bolt. He had then hired Bolt under a fake name to target, of all people, himself. For the next three days Sherlock was somehow able to act completely normally, though John had no idea how he managed to, knowing that both the police and a dangerous assassin had him under observation.

Typically, the attack took place while John had slipped out for a quick breath of air. The police had bungled their entrance into the flat, eventually arresting Bolt, but not before he had succeeded in ripping off Sherlock's left arm up to the elbow and hitting the detective over the head with it, leaving him with a mild concussion. It turned out that Bolt also had cybernetic arms, ones that were modified to give him great strength.

Now, that it was all over, the Met had the honour of informing the rest of the world that _they_ had caught the infamous cop killer, while Sherlock was left stretched out on a hospital bed, with a mess of torn wires trailing from his elbow, the skin torn across his forehead and a considerable headache. Even if his brain was housed inside a titanium skull, the vibrations caused by the blow from his own detached limb were strong enough to knock him senseless for a few seconds. The arm had been smashed into tiny pieces; there was no way that they could simply reattach it after that. A new arm would have to be created.

"I had almost forgotten what pain feels like," Sherlock had remarked dryly, when John had returned from the canteen with a Nutri-shake for him. He was massaging his temple with his remaining hand, as if that would help. A nurse had already sealed up the tear in the skin, leaving nothing but a thin silvery trail while the adhesive dried.

John dropped himself into the hard chair and placed the nutrient drink on the table beside Sherlock. The detective refused to look at it. "You wouldn't be feeling any pain if you had been assassinated today, which you nearly very were!"

Sherlock sat up, eyes wide with offence. "It's not my fault, John. If the police had come in when they should…"

"It was a stupid, risky plan. I'm surprised Lestrade gave it the go-ahead. That man sees you as nothing more than Scotland Yard equipment, to be used in catching criminals."

Sherlock snorted at that, flopping back against the pillows.

John flicked the plastic bottle with his index finger, sending it sliding a short way over the table. "Drink up," he encouraged. "You'll feel better."

"Not hungry," the younger man muttered. "Or thirsty. Or whatever it is I'm supposed to be feeling prior to downing one of those disgusting drinks."

"It's chocolate flavour."

"Eugh! My least favourite as you well know, John."

"Sorry, sorry. They'd ran out of strawberry."

They sat in silence for a moment before finally John lent forward in his seat and tapped Sherlock's cheek to gain his full attention. Before the detective could complain about being touched, John started to talk first.

"Look, the reason that you have a headache now, the reason that you need to drink Nutri-shakes, is because you have a living, organic brain, Sherlock. A brain which requires oxygen, water, nutrients and sleep to keep it healthy. The doctors can replace your limbs and any other part which gets damaged, but if your brain is too severely injured then it's game over for you."

Sherlock shifted slightly on the bed, staring hard at the ceiling. "Sections of the brain have been successfully cyberized before, John."

John nodded. "True, but only small sections and not without some slight changes in personality. And nobody really knows just _how much_ of the brain can be replaced with synthetic parts before the mind, personality, soul - whatever you want to call it - is lost forever."

He paused, trying to gauge Sherlock's reaction. The detective was perfectly still, but that told John more than any other facial expression his friend could have displayed.

He sighed. "I'm only telling you to be more careful in the future, okay?" He picked up the plastic bottle of Nutri-Shake and pressed it into Sherlock's hand. "Think of it as daily maintenance to allow you to carry on with The Work."

At that point the doctor came in and began inspecting the remains of Sherlock's left arm. He tutted loudly as he worked, before straightening up and saying, "I can print you off a temporary arm for now, Mr Holmes, but you'll have see to your cyber-technician in very near future for something with a closer fit. Now, you may find it a bit uncomfortable at times - standard NHS pattern, I'm afraid. The synchronization won't be too good, so you'll find it a bit clumsy."

"Will I be able to play my violin?"

"That depends. Which hand is the most important hand when playing a violin?"

Sherlock sighed heavily and closed his eyes. John patted his shoulder, hoping to keep his friend calm. Sherlock had little patience for doctors, John being an unusual exception.

The doctor turned to the rather old looking 3-D printer sat in the corner. He tapped in a couple of codes on the small computer screen.

"Marvellous things, aren't they?" he said, patting the top fondly.

John's mind was still silently rejoicing at the thought of not having to endure Sherlock's violin for a couple of weeks. "Violins?" he asked.

"No, 3-D printers. Where would we be without them?"

John smiled politely. The doctor wasn't alone in his appreciation of the 3-D printer. Historians were already crowing that society had been transformed by it's development. As with all technology, the first few generations of 3-D printers had been expensive and limited in what they could do, confined to only printing simple objects with one kind of material only, usually plastic. But, then they had moved on, printing off increasingly complex objects with a combination of materials. Once they had reached the stage of printing off electronic items, there wasn't an industry, business or office in the UK which didn't make full use of them. Hospitals found them especially useful, using them to create office supplies, medical equipment from syringes to stethoscopes, simple prosthetics and basic cybernetic parts. Nowadays there were very few households which didn't own one, leading some psychologists to link the rise in 3-D printers with the rise in people suffering with depression - people had little reason to leave their homes anymore, everything they needed could either be ordered online and delivered, or the patterns of the items they wanted downloaded and printed off at home.

The doctor turned to scrutinize Sherlock. "Are you fussy about skin tone? We try to get as close as possible match as we can, but funding you know…we're rather limited."

"I don't mind," Sherlock replied in a low voice.

"Good. Well, it's winter anyway. Most of the time the arm will be covered up." The doctor finished tapping in another code and then stood back, rubbing his hands together. "Right, well, that's all been put in now. Should be finished in about twenty minutes, then I'll come back and get you all wired up and ready to go home."

_Back in twenty minutes?_ John seriously doubted it.

oOo

Three hours later they were home.

John went up to his room almost as soon as they got in. Sherlock could tell that the doctor was still annoyed with him, although he didn't really understand why.

Their flat was in a horrible state of disarray, thanks to Bolt and the police. Sherlock could trace out their fight just by the positions of the knocked over furniture and the rumples in the carpet. He yawned. It could wait until tomorrow to be tidied up.

Sherlock fell back onto the sofa, grateful that it had had remained unscathed.

He raised his temporary arm up in front of his gaze, clenching and unclenching its fingers. The doctor had been right - it didn't feel quite in sync with his brain and there was a noticeable delay between him _thinking_ about moving the fingers and the action actually occurring. It was defiantly not up to supple movements required for playing a violin. And the skin tone was a lot darker than it should be to match the rest of skin.

The sooner his cyber-technician would be able to engineer him a more advanced arm, the better. John had already booked him a consultation in two days' time. Actually making the arm would take about two weeks.

He practiced rotating his wrist, hating how slow the response was. There was a spongy feeling about it. He knew that John didn't like him being so reckless and his wasteful attitude to his cybernetic body, but why shouldn't he be? One limb could easily be replaced by another without the worry of blood loss or pain. John didn't have that luxury, so he had to be more careful. But, to Sherlock, not having to take his body into consideration made him a better detective. He was willing and able to take the risks which wouldn't be possible for people with organic bodies. It was an edge he would always take full advantage of, no matter what John thought or said.

Sherlock tried to suppress another yawn, but failed miserably. John had been quite right about it being his weak spot. No matter how much Sherlock wished that it wasn't true, his brain still required sleep, amongst other things, in order to function properly. Perhaps he should look into getting the majority of his brain cyberized so that he could go completely without sleep. He would be an even more efficient detective then.

There was still research he wanted to do that night. Bolt may have been the one who got his hands dirty, but somebody had ordered and paid him to do so. That person could and should be found, with a little effort, and only if Sherlock could stay awake long enough to get started. But, it was a losing battle.

_It's just maintenance,_ he thought to himself as he finally gave into sleep.


	3. Birthday Wishes

**Chapter 3: Birthday Wishes**

"Blow out your candles, sweetheart, and make a wish."

Sherlock huffed loudly, but leant forward from where he knelt on his chair, and blew out the seventeen candles on the blue birthday cake.

His mother kissed his forehead, his father smiled fondly, and Uncle Roody raised his beer, saying, "Congrats." Mycroft looked slightly bored by it all and gave the impression that he had more important places to be. It was probably true given that he held a minor position in the Foreign Office and was quickly rising through the ranks. He nodded curtly at Sherlock and then went back to looking at his mini computer.

Feeling somewhat smothered by all of the superficial joviality in the room, Sherlock was glad that Mycroft had chosen not to take part in it. What was there to celebrate, really?

Well, there was _one_ thing. Only one more year to go. One more year to wait until he was given an adult cyborg body.

Sherlock had been three years old when he had first needed a completely new body. The details were hazy to him, despite the efforts of his psychiatrist to help him recall more. To his parents, the memories remained crystal clear.

The medical team in charge of Sherlock's case did their best to brief Mr and Mrs Holmes through the many moral, physical and psychological considerations that would come with rising a fully cyberized child - but time was short. One of the more pressing issues was the speed in which children grew and how often the medical team would be willing to perform the operation, which was always highly risky and the long, painful recovery period traumatic for the patient.

Following the advice of the medical team, Mr and Mrs Holmes agreed that Sherlock should only have to endure the danger of being transplanted into a cyber body twice in his life. As a minor he would have a child's body and then an adult one once he came of age. They signed the consent knowing that no matter how old his child cyber body looked, Sherlock would only ever enjoy a brief period of matching its age. Bullying and isolation was guaranteed. They hoped that it wouldn't matter so much once he had his adult body.

The child body had been crafted to have the appearance of a boy somewhere between the ages of nine and eleven, and as a seventeen year old, Sherlock despised it.

While he had been under the age of ten, the other children had been bemused by his older appearance, but had mostly accepted him, despite occasionally asking if he was too stupid to be in a class with children his own age. But, once his peers had hit puberty, Sherlock had to endure the agony of watching them grow into adults - taller and with more mature bodies - while he was stuck as a child.

The bullying had eased off over the years as his fellow pupils at Harrow become more understanding about his situation, but he still remained friendless. Although, that had probably had less to do with looking like a child, and more to do with social skills, or lack of them.

oOo

Sherlock stayed up late that night. He had a strict night time routine the school doctor had enforced upon him in an effort to cure his insomnia. He even had to sign a ridiculous contract promising that he would stick to it or otherwise forfeit some of his leisure activities. But, it was his birthday, it was the weekend and he was at home for another couple of days, so to hell with Dr Potter and his contract.

He read in front of the fire until the early hours of the morning. By then he was too sleepy to want to move, or to take a bath, or to write down of all his worries and upsets in his mood diary as his contract said he should.

At some point, he heard his father's voice softly berating him for not going to bed. He couldn't help but smile sleepily as his father carried him up the stairs, as he had done many times before, complaining good-naturedly as he went.

"I'll be too big to carry next year," Sherlock mumbled after Mr Holmes had dropped him onto the bed and covered him over.

"And my back is grateful for it. You need to take your meds, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow. "I don't need it."

"Yes, you do. Now open up."

Sherlock opened his mouth as his father used a small pipette to squeeze out a couple of drops of the anti-depressant medicine onto his tongue. He heard the soft tap of the bottle being placed back in its spot on the bedside table. He hoped that his father would leave the room, but instead he felt the mattress shifting as his father sat down.

"It won't be an easy year for you, for any of us, when you get your new body." His father sounded sad. "It will take months of physio for you to fully sync with your body. I may still have to help you to bed. And you still won't look the right age. You'll be older than your peers again."

Sherlock smirked into the pillow. "Good. I'm sick to death of looking and sounding like a child. And if I ever make to be being an old man, I'll still look youngish - cyber bodies barely age."

His father sighed heavily, briefly placing his hand on Sherlock's forehead before silently exiting the room.

oOo

The next morning it was Mycroft who wanted to talk to him. They went out into the garden just as the sun was rising above the fields in the distance. Sherlock sat on the fence, while Mycroft was content to lean against it. They passed a few minutes in silence, before Mycroft finally spoke up.

"What did you wish for?"

"Sorry?"

"Yesterday, when you blew out your candles. What did you wish for?"

Sherlock smirked. "If I told you then it won't come true, will it?"

Mycroft stood up straight, tapping out a beat on the fence. "Have you noticed how many warnings we have about making wishes in our culture? _Be careful what you wish for,_ or _that's just wishful thinking._ I suppose it's all meant to help people avoid being disappointed. To help them feel better when all their hopes and dreams are suddenly blown out, like a candle flame."

Sherlock shook his head. "Whatever it is that you want to say, Mycroft, just spit it out. I haven't got all day to listen to you rattling on about wishes." He hopped down onto the ground, landing neatly on his feet, frowning at his brother.

Mycroft stared back, towering over Sherlock. "You know what I am trying to say. But, I want to make sure that you really understand, _little_ brother."

Sherlock's frown turned into a glare. He hated it when Mycroft, or anyone, made a jibe about his height. He broke eye contact, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"I know, I know!" he snapped. "Having a new body will have it's downsides. I'll be eighteen, but look thirty. Boo hoo. But, I'm quite sure that the positives will outweigh the negatives. I have another year to prepare for it. I'm ready for it _now._" Sherlock tugged at his jumper, pulling it out before letting it go, allowing the material spring back into place. "Anyway, it can't be any worse than being stuck in this body." He turned to go back into the house.

"Wait. I never gave you your present."

Mycroft walked over to the log pile and, reaching behind it, produced a flat while box. Sherlock eagerly lifted the lid, revealing a soft blue scarf neatly folded inside. It was funny to watch as Sherlock failed to keep his face under control.

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock's badly disguised delight.

"Happy birthday, brother, and many happy returns."

_May your wish come true and stay true._


	4. His New Body

**Chapter 4**: **His New Body**

It was never easy adjusting to a new cybernetic body. In order to achieve complete synchronization with the new body, one had to "teach" the body to respond to the various electrical signals sent by the brain. Gross motor skills were often learnt hours after the body was first activated, and often with no arising issues. However, fine motor skills and more complex movements required repetition of thought (of consciously picturing the movement taking place) with simultaneous manipulation of the limb or body part in question, by a skilled physiotherapist, experienced in working with cyborgs. It was a lengthy process which required inexhaustible patience from both the therapists and the patients themselves.

Sherlock Holmes lacked patience.

It had been two weeks since he had first woken up in his new adult body and was desperate to get his life back on track. He was eighteen years old, and there were places he wanted to visit and experiences he wanted to have, which had been closed to him before while he had been trapped in a cybernetic body with the appearance of a ten year old boy. He had a place at the prestigious Serenity University (located on the Moon), but his parents and the Masters at the university had persuaded him to defer his place for a year, expecting that his therapy would take months and leave him too far behind to be able to keep up. Sherlock had snorted at that, but complied with their wishes. A year off sounded like a good idea anyway.

His therapist had assured him that he had set a new record for teaching his body the very basics. Within only a few days of being in his new body, Sherlock could walk, run, use the stairs, fall safely and get up again, wash and dress himself, and use cooking and eating utensils. He still needed help fastening buttons and fixing his hair. He was also still finding it difficult to maintain his balance whilst standing or sitting still, and he kept knocking objects over with his arms, but his therapist had reassured him that his brain simply needed time to adjust to the new length of his limbs. He had gone from being 4 ft. 10inc to 6ft 4inc overnight.

"You're developing quite the vain streak," Mycroft commented. "I can see you looking at yourself whenever you pass a reflective surface."

The Holmes family were travelling home from the hospital in their car. In the 22nd century all cars drove themselves. This resulted in only very rare traffic accidents; however, the rate of divorces per year had greatly increased. This was put down to couples having more time to argue without having to concentrate on driving. Really, it was a mistake having the car seats facing each other.

Sherlock still required physiotherapy, but since the cyber team at the hospital was satisfied that he had achieved a high level of synchronization, he could carry on with the rest of his therapy in the comfort of his own home.

Mycroft grunted as for the third time Sherlock's left leg "accidently" twitched, kicking his brother.

"I'm just getting used to seeing my new face," Sherlock reasoned. "It's odd – two weeks ago I had a child's face, but now I look about thirty." He coughed to clear his voice. "And this voice…it's deep. It's like speaking from the bottom of a mine shaft."

His father smiled. "You're quite the catch now. It was my idea that you should have your mother's eyes. The ladies and gents will love it."

Sherlock looked alarmed. "What ladies and gents?"

His mother patted his arm. "Anyone who finds you attractive." She sighed happily. "It's like seeing your father from twenty years ago. You'll be able to start dating."

"I won't be dating, Mother."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. We've known for years what his adult face would look like. Why act so surprised now?"

"It's different to actually see it moving around," his mother argued. She turned to Sherlock. "Ignore your brother, dear. He's just finding the change difficult, especially as you now look like _his_ older brother."

Mycroft yawned. "I can barely contain the tears."

"I defiantly won't be wasting my time dating."

"That's enough from both of you. We're almost home; and we have a surprise for you, Sherlock."

Once they had made it home, Sherlock started up the stairs with Mycroft following close behind, just in case he lost his balance and fell backwards. His mother had insisted that he should try to rest for a while and, loathe that he was to admit it, Sherlock was feeling close to being exhausted. It had been a long week and an emotional one at that. He was experiencing aches all over his body as his brain tried to warn him that there was something different about his body, something that it couldn't understand. Those would disappear once his brain had settled down into its new home.

He went into his bedroom and saw the "surprise" his mother had referred to. Well, she had called it a surprise, but Sherlock had been expecting it. All the child-sized furniture had been replaced – the bed, the desk and the chair had all been replaced with adult-sized pieces. The wardrobe only held grown-up clothes. Everything that Sherlock used to wear was gone. _Good_, Sherlock thought, although, he suspected that his parents had stored his old clothes away somewhere for sentiment's sake.

"I had to spend some time persuading them that you wouldn't want to keep anything," Mycroft said. "For a while, they had this ridiculous notion that you would want to keep some of it."

Sherlock held one of the shirts against himself and studied his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

Mycroft tilted his head to one side. "If you were a typical teenager, I would have questioning the logic of giving you such a body. But, I suppose that in your case, Mother and Father don't have to worry about raising illegitimate grandchildren just yet."

Sherlock yawned, placing a hand against the wardrobe to steady himself. The longer he stayed awake, the more difficult it became to keep full control of his body. He looked pointedly at his brother.

Mycroft looked slightly concerned. "I should leave you to rest," he said, and it was at that moment that Sherlock understood that he wouldn't be getting any sleep for at least another ten minutes.

He sat down wearily on the bed. "What is it?"

"Have you decided yet if you're going to keep your old body?"

Sherlock flopped back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"People keep making a big issue out of that," he said. "But, I don't see why. I told the hospital they could keep it and reuse the parts. There are other children who need them. It's just like throwing out old clothes. Why keep them when other people need them?"

Mycroft smiled sardonically. "It's hardly like "throwing out old clothes", Sherlock. You lived in that body for fifteen years. It should be important to you."

Sherlock looked up at him. He would have raised an eyebrow, but he wasn't quite capable of that yet. "So, you think that I should just keep it? Prop it up in the corner like some novelty lamp stand?"

"You're on body number three. Do you really think that changing bodies is like swapping one worn-out jumper for another?" Mycroft squared his shoulders, prepared for a long debate. "Your life is more important than that. If you place so little value on your body then –"

Sherlock groaned loudly, curling up on one side. Mycroft's face softened slightly.

"Go away," Sherlock pleaded, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Mycroft dropped his shoulders, taking a step back. He had pushed Sherlock too hard, and not for the first time. It was a conversation they would have to have another time.

"Very well," he whispered. "I will leave you in peace now."

Before he left the room, Mycroft took one last look at his brother, looking surprisingly fragile for someone with a titanium body. One wrong word and he would shatter for good.

Sherlock drifted off into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of the two bodies he had discarded. He dreamt of his first cybernetic body, being disassembled at the hospital, each part being neatly stored away, ready to be reused; and he dreamt of his original body, incinerated over fifteen years ago. Some nights he dreamt that he could still feel it, as though he still had some connection to it. Those dreams usually turned into nightmares.


End file.
